i'm going to sleep and waking up a different person
by exultation
Summary: Stiles and his thoughts. Warnings: self harm, fairly graphic.
1. Chapter 1

It's terrible, awful, bad.

Stiles can't seem to stop thinking about it. It doesn't matter what he's doing, or is trying to do, or has done. He'll be at school, in the middle of Chem class and listening to Mr. Harris drone on while he tries hard to look interested, engaged. Telling Dad about his day over dinner, pasta with salad on the side for himself and salad with pasta on the side for Dad. On the field, sitting on the bench as he watches Scott own the game and cheering his heart out. In bed, at night, watching the stars in the dark sky through the window as he wills himself to sleep. In the shower, under a beating torrent of hot-hot-hot water as he shuts his eyes and presses his hands against his ears - _shut all the sound out, Stiles, shut all the sound out_ - and tries not to breathe.

Every thought is coloured by blood, every smell poisoned by that lingering metallic tang. Iron filling his mouth as he tries to choke down the Lucky Charms in the morning. His chest is both numb and hurting. A bit like the Lucky Charms or last night's pasta got caught up together and are now sitting stuck in some odd hollow part of his heart that he never knew he had. He thumps his chest a few times and coughs, but it doesn't help. That strange crushed glass ball sits in there, waiting.

Once upon a time, he had known how to make it go away. It had been easy, like second nature. After Mom - after Mom, Stiles had had a lot of free time to himself. Dad had been throwing himself into work and for a while, drinking himself stupid every night. And Stiles, silly little Stiles, had all the time in the world to figure out what to do with himself when he had a panic attack, or when he'd wake up in tears after the recurring nightmare of Mom's death (except it wasn't really a nightmare), or when the boys at school were too much, too harsh on a strange little manic kid who was different.

Stiles had started with hair pulling, because it was easy and came naturally. His hands finding their way to his scalp as he dry gagged into the toilet, heaving and gasping as the panic threatened to pull him under. He'd tugged his fistfuls of hair, not hard enough to pull any out, but hard enough for a buzz of pain to cut through the cloud. It brought Stiles back down, grounded him slightly, like the electric current of panic running through his skin has been earthed. It seemed such a perfect solution. To control himself, without having to resort to the drugs or the therapists - perfect.

It hadn't been enough, though. It had worked, for a little while, and then it hadn't. And Stiles grew bolder as he cycled through each method. Slamming his hands against the walls, bruising himself, scratching away at his skin and then finally, when he was bold enough, breaking skin and drawing blood. That had worked well, really well, and kept him going for a good amount of time.

But Stiles had needed more. Became his own worst enemy, dared himself to go further. Judged himself on the depth of the wounds, the amount of blood he was drawing, the amount of pain he caused. He wasn't so far gone that he couldn't recognise the danger signs. Stiles had done the reading and the research (and that too, was a double edged sword. The more Stiles read about what he was doing, the more he compared himself to the cases presented as severe. And a little voice kept telling him, _you're nowhere near bad enough, Stiles. You're not even succeeding in this. You're half-assing it, just like you half-ass everything else. Do more, do worse, go harder._), knew where he was headed. He gave himself a little grace period, told himself he'd stop, that it wasn't a problem. But he didn't, because it was just so much easier to keep going - and so he did.

The catalyst had come one spring day. It hadn't been even been a particularly bad week, or month, or anything, really. He'd just been doing what he always did, when his skin wouldn't stop itching and that recurring brittle and sharp _something_ in his mind kept bothering him, pulling and tugging at the corners until the smooth map of his brain was tangled and frayed, pulled apart.

Stiles did it in threes, because he always did - three is a small number, he's not out-of-control if he _only _does three, three is good - but he went too hard, too long, too deep on the third. The sight of the gaping wound and the white fatty flesh within hadn't phased him too much, not in the first moment or two, but then the mouth of the wound had filled, red rushing in like the tide at the beach, overflowing and spilling down his leg in the matter of seconds. He couldn't grab at the tissues fast enough to staunch the flow and he remembers kneeling on his bedroom floor, pressing shaking fingers to the wound, trying to close the flesh together to get the blood to stop. He'd made an almighty mess on the carpet that day.

It'd taken him an hour to clean the best part of the blood out. The stain stayed, faint but taunting, and Stiles prayed his dad wouldn't notice (he never did). And after that, he Febreze-d the shit out of his room because it still smelt like the lingering stench of blood.

Stiles had stopped after that day, because he'd scared himself shitless. He still pulled at his hair and bruised himself, but no more blood. No more accidents. No more losing control.

It hadn't been too much of an issue, until now. Until it was. Forcing himself to stop thinking about it didn't work anymore and everytime he got a moment's breath, there'd be blood on his mind and iron in his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Sorry, don't quite know. 

* * *

Stiles hasn't done anything, not yet. He doesn't even plan to act on his thoughts, treats it as just a minor inconvenience. Sure, it drags him down a bit. Sure, it colours his every wandering thought. Sure, he zones out in class sometimes (a lot of times) and comes back to yelling teachers and Scott unsubtly nudging him with his foot. Sure, he'd been a little distracted in his downtime, because sitting on the bed and staring at the ceiling while remembering how it feels to pull your skin apart could be time better spent.

And sure, Derek Hale seemed to be side-eyeing him more than usual lately, watching Stiles with his brow furrowed and mouth pursued (adorably), like Stiles is some problem to be solved. And isn't that rich, with all the issues in Derek's life, that he's looking at Stiles (Stiles!) of all people like he's the problem. Stiles had resolutely ignored the side-eyeing and the staring and lifted his chin with dignity, because he was dignified and regal and a prince among men, and tried to stop thinking non-supernatural related thoughts while in Derek's company, just in case Alpha werewolves could actually read minds (he'd checked - resounding no, but just in case.)

But, you know, who was Derek to make him feel bad? It's not like he's hurting anyone to fantasise a bit, he tells himself as he sits in his bathtub of rapidly cooling water. It's not like anyone_ knows_. He can indulge a little.

And so what if he also dreams of just fading away sometimes? It's not like he's going to act on it. He wouldn't ever - he would never leave Dad like that. Not after Mom. So a bit of harmless daydreaming isn't going to hurt, if he's not actually going to _do_ anything.

Stiles lifts his arm and flexes, watching the water droplets fall away and the tendons pop and the blue veins move beneath his skin. It would be so easy, like crushing a bug. Like flicking a switch or shutting his eyes. It wouldn't even have to be messy - he could sit in the tub, filled up to the brim with warm water, and just sit there, and sit there, leaking his life away. He could see it in his mind already, red curling into the clear, clouding everything until it was all pink pink pink. Like the rot in his mind draining out with his blood. His mind would become clearer and clearer and sharper - like the glassy reflection of a still pool of water - even as the water that holds him becomes muddier with each thump of his struggling heart. It would be a purging, yes. A purging. He shivers just thinking about it, that numb part in his chest now twinging at the thought, and watches as his arm flexes again, into a fist.

* * *

Stiles jolts awake because he's fucking _freezing_. He's still in the bathtub, go figure, and the water is now ice-cold. He shivers, getting out. His mobile is on the bathroom counter and it's three in the morning. The numbers burn themselves into his eyes. Stiles swears inwardly as he towels himself dry and puts his clothes on. Trust him to fall asleep in the bathtub for five hours. There's still homework to be done, an assignment to be turned in the day after and most importantly, research of the supernatural kind to sink his teeth into. He can't afford to laze around and fall asleep in bathtubs. He's got to stay focused. People (werewolves) die when Stiles isn't focused.

When Stiles gets to his room, Derek is on his bed, leaning against the headboard with his eyes closed. They slide open as Stiles stops uncertainly at the threshold, hand on the doorknob.

He's aware he's gaping like a moron, but that only seems like the natural reaction to very nice-looking alpha werewolves lounging in his bed like they own it. Besides, he's still sleep-addled and shivering in the cool night air, so a little delayed reaction time can be forgiven.

"Where have you been?" Derek says. Growls, rather.

"That's it? No 'hello' or 'good evening' or 'hey, Stiles, great to see you on this fine night, incidentally your bed is really comfortable, did you get it on sale'? What did they teach you in puppy school?" Stiles snipes as he shuts the door behind him. He slides into his computer chair and because Derek's staring doesn't seem to be stopping, starts spinning around in it. "So what can I do for ya, big man? I take it this isn't a social call? Not that I'd mind if it were, except it's kind of three in the morning so you should probably be sociable earlier, like earlier in the evening. Be sociable at a _sociably_ acceptable time, as it were," Stiles says and snorts to himself.

Derek doesn't say anything and Stiles frowns.

"Research? If it's about the harpies, man, I swear to god I was gonna do it tonight after school stuff. I fell asleep, but I promise, I'll get it done." Stiles glances at the time again. Derek's silence is starting to unnerve him because while the werewolf had never been particularly talkative, he usually could manage one or two word responses. Maybe he was pissed Stiles hadn't been pulling his weight. It's gone without saying that Stiles is the research monkey since his firepower is sorely lacking. That's the spot in the (informal) pack into which Stiles falls. What's the point of a research monkey that doesn't do any goddamn research? Stupid. Stiles is so stupid. Why did he have to fall asleep before?

"Actually, you know, I could probably get it done after this. I don't have to leave for school until like, half past seven so I've got a solid four hours to get shit done. It won't be everything because I've got to check out the Argent bestiary as well, but I could probably get eighty to ninety percent of what's on the web together." As soon as the words leave Stiles' mouth, he wants to smack himself. Eighty to ninety percent? Like that's going to be fucking sufficient in a life or death scenario. If he wants to keep everyone alive, they've got to go in fully armed with all the knowledge about what they're facing. They can't _eighty or ninety_ percent live. _You're so fucking stupid_, Stiles rages._ Why can't you fucking just **do** things?_

"Hey. Stiles. Hey!" Derek's voice cuts through his thoughts and Stiles jerks his head up to look at him. He didn't even realise he'd been staring at the floor (at that faded stain on the carpet), his hands winding through his hair and grabbing and pulling. He drops his hands self-consciously.

Derek is looking at him speculatively and Stiles wilts under his assessing stare. He so very much wants to be alone right now. Can Derek leave? Can he just leave Stiles to do the fucking research that he was meant to do and wallow in his own stupidity? Please and thank you?

"It's fine. We weren't going to make a direct assault until after the full moon, remember?" Derek stands up and stretches, and Stiles very deliberately does not look at where his shirt rides up. "So relax."

Did Derek just tell him to _relax_? And now Derek's sitting back down on his bed, making little settling-in movements on the mattress like he doesn't plan to leave, resuming his creepy staring.

Stiles shifts uncomfortably. "Um. I kinda do vaguely recall that at pack meet yesterday. Right, um. I've got homework to do anyway, so I'll just do that. You just..." Stiles waves his hand lamely. "Make yourself at home. Since you're not here for research?" He phrases it like a question, but Derek just closes his eyes and ignores him.

"_Ohh_-kay then," Stiles says in an undertone and turns back to his computer screen. If Derek wants to play chicken, Stiles can play chicken with him.

* * *

Despite his best efforts at staying awake, Stiles does end up falling asleep at his desk. He wakes up with drool pooling under him and a horrible crick in his neck. "Mmmnghm?" He says, grabbing at his blaring phone. It's just his alarm and it's time for school.

It takes him about ten seconds to remember creeperwolf but when he spins around, his bed is made and the window shut. It's like Derek was never there. Stiles stares at the bed, frowning. Maybe Derek had just needed a place to crash. Maybe his freaky half burnt house or his freezing warehouse loft wasn't cutting it anymore. Stiles shakes himself and gets up, yawning.

_Or maybe he just wanted to keep an eye on you._ The thought hits like a thunderclap on a still night. _Maybe he knew you wouldn't do what you were meant to do. Maybe he knew he couldn't rely on you unless he watched your every move. _ Stiles feels sick in the gut._ Maybe he knew you wouldn't be able to focus on what really needed to be done, that you're always going to be a liability to the pack._ Derek wouldn't think so little of him, would he? Stiles had always come through for the pack before. He'd always done what he thought was the best he could do in limited circumstances. And he had always been acutely aware that lives depended on his research and planning. Stiles wouldn't ever take that responsibility lightly. _But you did just bench the harpy research and get some shuteye instead, idiot._ God, he really was an idiot, wasn't he?

Stiles is suddenly aware that he's chewed through his lip. The iron taste in his mouth is real this time. He shuts his eyes and tries to calm his breathing. He needs to get ready for school. He needs to get through today. Then he'll come home, and do the research, and show Derek he can be a responsible adult when he needs to be.


End file.
